


Tumblr Flash Fic Prompts

by AuthorMAGrant



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime), 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorMAGrant/pseuds/AuthorMAGrant
Summary: Assorted flash fics written off Tumblr prompts. Various fandoms, various topics, various ratings.Chapter 1 - Yuri on IceChapter 2 - Yuri on IceChapter 3 - Boku No Hero AcademiaChapter 4 - Boku No Hero AcademiaChapter 5 - Attack on TitanChapter 6 - Yuri on IceChapter 7 - Boku No Hero AcademiaChapter 8 - Yuri on IceChapter 9 - Yuri on IceChapter 10 - Yuri on Ice





	1. Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @sassy-potato-of-wonder: “ I don’t really think before I act. It’s part of my charm.” for Yuri on Ice. Went with aged-up Otayuri for this one.

He didn’t think anything of opening Yuri’s picture while he was still sitting around the table with his family after dinner. The celebration of his older sister’s university graduation meant the entire Altin clan was in town, so no one would notice his surreptitious glance beneath the tablecloth.

Until he saw what the picture _was_ and jerked, knocking his hand on the underside of the table and nearly tipping over his water glass from the force.

“Otabek?” his grandmother asked, peering closer at his rapidly reddening cheeks. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Yes, grandma,” he mumbled, hiding his phone in his pocket. “Sorry.”

“You look flushed,” she continued, reaching out to prod at his cheek. “You should go to the bathroom and put some cool water on your neck.”

Right. Cool water was a good idea about now. He made some weak excuse and rose from the table.

“Tell him hello for us,” his mother called after him as he fled.

Safe in the quiet of the house, he locked himself inside the bathroom and dialed. Yuri answered the phone before the first ring was done.

“Really? A dick pic while I’m sitting beside my grandma,” Otabek said, doing his best to sound wry instead of flustered and needy.

Across the line, Yuri laughed. “I don’t really think before I act. It’s part of my charm.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m a fucking delight and you know it. How was Aiza’s graduation?”

Otabek turned on the sink and patted some cool water on the back of his neck. At least if his mother interrogated him later, he could fake that he was following his grandmother’s advice.

“Long,” he said. “We’re all so proud of her.”

“She’s the right kind of bossy for a doctor,” Yuri agreed, and Otabek smiled at his genuine attempt to give a compliment. “Is everyone still staying at your house again tonight?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Very unfortunately. The weeklong celebration meant he’d been kicked out of his room so his uncle could have his bed—Uncle Nazer had a bad back, after all—and sleeping in the living room meant no privacy for the kind of calls he and Yuri both enjoyed.

“Where are you?”

He turned off the sink. “The bathroom. It’s the only safe room in the entire house. If the door’s locked.”

“Is it locked right now?”

After three years together, he knew where this was going. What the purr in Yuri’s question meant. And his entire body responded. “Maybe.”

What happened next wasn’t a surprise. It was awkward as hell, since he was holding his phone between his ear and shoulder, but he managed. Yuri’s breathy descriptions and soft moans helped him forget it wasn’t his boyfriend’s hand wrapped around his cock. They both came too quickly, within seconds of each other, Yuri calling out his pleasure to an empty apartment while Otabek had to muffle his groan in a clenched fist.

He cleaned up in a daze, unwilling to end the call even though he needed to return to dinner. “Two weeks until the Cup of China.”

“Not long,” Yuri agreed. “Call again when you can. I miss you.”

His heart clenched at the quiet admission. No matter how many times he heard it over the years, Otabek still treasured the memory of every time Yuri reminded him that this wasn’t a passing thing.

“I miss you too.”

“Say hi to your family for me, _zhanym_. And stop checking your phone while you’re at dinner. It’s fucking rude.”

He hung up, laughing, and made his way back outside. His grandmother beamed at him when he resettled in his seat and patted his cheek.

“There, you look much better now. That cool water helps, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, blushing when he caught his mother’s amused, knowing look from across the table. “The cool water was exactly what I needed.”


	2. A 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @stellarblau: “On a scale of 1-10, how bad do you think it would be if–” “At least a 20,” for Yuri on Ice. Victuuri, with background Otayuri because I can.

Victor considered Yuri a younger brother. They’d spent almost half the kid’s life together, on and off the ice. They’d survived each other’s adolescence and hormonal mood swings. They’d lamented and commiserated about Yakov’s expectations. They’d pushed each other to continuously improve at the sport.

It had nearly broken Victor’s heart when Yuri had mocked his pursuit of Yuuri to Japan. It _had_ broken his heart when Yuri mocked their love. In hindsight, Yuri’s fury made sense. Victor had abandoned him without warning, vanishing to a foreign country to start a new life with an unknown man, despite the knowledge in the back of his mind that Yuri feared being left behind more than anything else in the world. It was actually Yuuri who figured out what the real schism of their relationship was and who pushed over the years for them to work on mending it.

Which is why he didn’t press the **POST** button like he wanted and instead called to his husband, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad do you think it would be if–?”

“At least a twenty,” Yuuri replied from the bathroom.

“But—”

“Whatever you’re considering, it’s a terrible idea.”

Victor made a face at Makkachin, who thumped her tail against the mattress. Yuuri emerged from the bathroom a moment later, towel wrapped around his waist. His hair—grown out longer now for no other reason than Victor loved it—dripped intermittently on his shoulders.

“Is it really so bad to want to share that moment with the world?” Victor asked.

His husband rolled his eyes, dropped his towel, and crawled into bed, snuggling up against Victor’s side before reaching for his glasses and the book of Russian poetry he was trying to work through.

“Victor, how many times have you ever seen Yurio cry when he’s not on the ice?”

He thought hard. “Maybe three times.”

“And those were all extreme cases, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, can you explain to me how posting a video of him breaking down when Otabek shows up at his surprise birthday party is a good idea?”

Victor shot a quick look at Makka. She licked her lips and the tip of her tail gave a tentative brush from side to side, but she didn’t give him any answer.

“A video of Yurio running to his—God, I hope it becomes official soon—boyfriend and climbing him in front of everyone, including Nikolai, while sobbing into his sweatshirt. That video,” Yuuri specified, flipping to his bookmarked page.

“That video,” Victor repeated.

Sometimes he wished his husband wasn’t always right when it came to issues with Yuri. Sometimes he wished he had that same emotional distance, so he could figure these things out on his own. Sometimes he had nightmares about how lonely his life would have been if Yuuri wasn’t there to offer a different perspective and to remind him that his life and relationships off the ice were even more important than the ones on it.

He eyed his phone. “Maybe I can see how posting it could be considered a poor decision.”

“But I bet he’d appreciate you sending him a copy,” Yuuri murmured. He transferred his book to a single hand and reached down to clasp the other with Victor’s.

Victor sighed, but deleted the post. If he simply saved the draft, the temptation to share it would be too great later.

He didn’t bother to type a long message to Yuri. Instead, he wrote, “Thought you may want these” and attached the video and the few extra pictures.

Yuuri smiled when he heard the sound of the message being sent. “Trust me,” he said, squeezing Victor’s hand.

Victor returned his attention to the cooking show he’d been watching, content with the low murmur of instructions and the occasional whisper of pages turning. When the show’s end credits ran, he reached for the remote to turn it off, but was distracted by the ding of his phone.

Yuri’s message back was equally short. “Asshole.”

And then a second later, a second message. “Thanks.”

And another second later, a third message. Victor beamed and held up his phone toward Yuuri. “Look! He sent me a cat video!”


	3. Happy Birthday, Kirishima!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by an anonymous being (who I want to thank for having me write about BNHA for the first time ever!)

Everyone teased him for hanging around to help clean up after his own surprise party, but Kirishima wouldn’t be coaxed away from the task. There was a familiarity in the action, a fond remembrance of his very first internship after the sports festival. Cleaning up wasn’t a pain; taking care of a common area was respectful, and it was manly to be respectful to others.

Kaminari and Sero nodded when he informed them of that. Bakugo, standing further away near the table that had housed the birthday cake, made a low _tccht_ in the back of his throat. Still, he grabbed an extra garbage bag from Iida and began angrily stuffing used cups and napkins and plates in it. Kirishima knew better than to comment on Bakugo’s decision, but it warmed his heart to see his friend acting in an unselfish manner.

Eventually, all the work was done and the only task left was to gather up the small pile of presents he’d unwrapped. He was grateful no one felt they had to stick around to help him with that. It was kind of embarrassing to be the focus of so much unwarranted attention. He could handle attention from his fights or rescues, since that’s what pros had to do, but deep down, Kirishima was still very much the nervous kid who worried he wouldn’t be cool enough to fit in, even though today’s party had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that that was not the case here at UA.

He had scooped up most of the loot when, to his surprise, Bakugo appeared at his elbow, permascowl firmly in place.

“Knock it off, shitty hair,” the blond growled, grabbing the last few presents for him. “You’re going to drop everything.”

Kirishima grinned and bumped his shoulder against Bakugo’s. “Thanks, man.”

They walked back to his room in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable silence, not by a long shot, but Kirishima was too busy running over the day’s unexpected pleasantries to try to coax the blond into being talkative. Bakugo helped him inside, dumped the presents on his bed, and stalked back toward the door.

“I’m glad you were at the party!” Kirishima called after him. “Best present of the night.”

For a brief moment, Bakugo’s shoulders hunched and Kirishima caught the acrid bite of his unignited sweat in the air.

“I said we were friends, didn’t I, dumb ass? Of course I had to be there.” He was mostly out the door when he added a grumbled, “Happy birthday.”

Much later, Kirishima discovered the small box hidden underneath the presents Bakugo had helped with. The glossy red paper was smudged with fingerprints, the tape used heavily to try to make up for the miscalculated cuts to the paper. He wasn’t sure who it was from; he’d opened everyone’s gifts already and would feel terrible if he’d missed thanking someone for their thoughtfulness.

He unwrapped it carefully and found himself the proud owner of a small box. Even more confused now, he undid _more_ tape and finally cracked the box open. The noise that escaped him when he saw what lay inside, wrapped in paper towels, was not at all manly.

For the first time in a while, Kirishima didn’t care.

“A Crimson Riot Young Rioters club ring,” he mumbled, running a finger reverently over the plastic keepsake.

Once upon a time, he’d had this same ring. He’d broken it long ago at school when he’d used his quirk to block a bully’s punch at another student. He’d been proud of his actions, although it sucked that there was no chance of getting a replacement. A limited number of rings had been made, and his parents couldn’t afford another.

He’d never told anyone about that though, except ...

He didn’t mind wiping away a few tears when he put on the ring. There was nothing wrong with crying, especially after learning his angry best friend remembered a childhood memory he’d shared while half-asleep at a dorm movie night. Nope, nothing wrong with crying at all.


	4. Pizza and Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by @eclair

 “I hate anchovies on pizza, but you order it all the time. I can’t stand pineapple on pizza either.”

“That’s because you have no sense of adventure,” Kirishima said with a toothy grin, reaching for another slice from the open pizza box that lay on the couch between them. “Which proves why it’s a good idea for us to work together. I push you, man.”

And to prove his point, Kirishima reached out a socked foot and pushed against the heavy boot Bakugo had resting on the coffee table. Complete with _boop_ noise.

Belatedly, he realized the conversation wasn’t going as planned.

It was instinctive to swear, but his heart wasn’t in it. It had been a long ass day. The conference, while fascinating, was still two days from being over and Bakugo hadn’t adapted yet for the time zone shift. Add to that Kirishima’s naturally sunny personality and he was incapable of dredging up anything but the most impotent of furies.

“You know,” Kirishima said between bites, “you’re not exactly easy to work with either.”

Bakugo’s stomach plummeted into free-fall. Over the past seven years, he and Kirishima had been apart less than eight months, and that had only been because Kirishima needed to take on a different job for a bit before a transfer position opened at Bakugo’s agency. They were coworkers, roommates, and best friends, and Bakugo had long ago stopped worrying when the other shoe would drop.

Until now, when it inevitably _did_ drop.

“Oh?” he choked out. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” At least he’d finally know what it was that pushed Kirishima over the edge.

“You don’t clean out the sink after you shave. You drink straight from the milk carton. You never put the coffee cups in the sink. And you don’t recycle.” A pair of red eyes stared at him with utter misery. “Do you have any idea how unheroic it is to not recycle?”

He was processing the words, but they weren’t clicking. Shaving? Milk? Recycling? A strange flutter was setting up shop behind his ribs and his palms were getting warm. “What? That’s—those are shitty examples!”

Kirishima rolled his eyes and finished off the rest of his slice. “Obviously, dude. I’m proving a point. If the most incompatible thing about us is a pizza order, we’re probably gonna do okay starting our own agency.” His eyes crinkled and Bakugo felt a little sunburned from the brightness of his smile. “Besides, as your sidekick, it’ll be my responsibility to find us food we’ll both eat while working.”

“Oh, so you’re planning on slacking off already? What asshole said you would just be a sidekick?” he snapped.

For fuck’s sake, he needed damn eclipse glasses. And apparently tissues, since Kirishima was wiping the heel of his palm over his eyes.

“Aww, goddammit,” Bakugo groaned. He reached to grab some of the napkins and threw them at his friend. Partner. Fucking whatever. “Don’t start. Have more of your damn fruit pizza.”

“Only if you have a slice.”

He caved, but picked off all the pineapple. After seven years, he’d gotten good at it, and it looked like he’d be doing it for many more years to come.


	5. Les Ailes Faux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by @zippyzephy. I haven’t shared anything I’ve done for Attack on Titan before, but this prompt seemed perfect for that fandom, so I decided to be brave.

_Corpses make everything more complicated_ , Levi thinks to himself as he drags another body toward the pile.

The attack was nothing special. Titans, screams, blood, death. Severed limbs littering the earth. It was no different from any other day. Levi knew that.

But the cold flesh under his fingers, the stiffening of the corpse, the weight of this body, feels heavier than before. The weight increases with each battle fought, with each step closer toward the inevitable statistic that haunts the members of the Scout Regiment.

Idly, he wonders when his humanity lifted its head. When his humanity decided to dig itself out of the pit he’d stuffed it into to survive. After decades of living like an animal, of separating himself from others, of remaining focused on the mission and the mission alone, it’s impossible to pinpoint an exact moment of change. That would be like looking back at the ruins of a fallen civilization and trying to say what single thing led to the destruction of an entire people.

Impossible. Useless. A waste of energy.

And yet …

Further down the street, a dark head emerges from the shadows of a nearby building. The flash of sunlight over glass lenses confirms Hanji will still bother him tonight at dinner. A small victory. He could live on without her, but the loss of Erwin has left them a little out of sync and they find quiet ways to support each other, small gestures like bringing a cup of tea or throwing a cape over the other in passing. They don’t need to face loss again so soon.

The squad comes back together in trickles. A few soldiers here. A few there. Partners rejoining and checking for friends. The dead are collected. Lain out. Shown the respect they deserve.

Levi works his way down the line of corpses, cutting patches from the jackets to return to the families. He takes in the faces of the fallen, if faces are still there, and a tiny, dangerous part of him glows brighter as he nears the end of the line without finding the soldier he fears seeing most.

Discussion and muttering from behind him. Levi can hear Mikasa’s low, steady voice rising in relief. Armin’s excited call of welcome. He knows what that means. Knows who has returned.

He worries the light flickering to life inside him will be seen by everyone else. Tries to shutter it so no one can see that traitorous, frail hope strengthening him. Erwin saw. Erwin understood. Erwin _supported_ , the bastard he is. Was. He’s dead now. Another corpse in the ground.

Still, the last conversation he had with Levi before that final battle refuses to crawl out of the corners of Levi’s mind. _Someday_ , Erwin had said, _you’ll need to start thinking about how you want to_ live _, instead of how you want to die._

He went and said it and opened the door.

And now Levi checks the faces of the fallen and pretends not to be grateful every battle the statistic isn’t proven right.

Shadow flitting in the corner of his vision. Youthful, bratty voice roughened from screaming during the transformation. “Captain, do you need help?”

_Yes_ , Levi muses as he cuts away the last patch from the man who _isn’t_ standing beside him, _corpses make everything more complicated._


	6. Icebreakers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by @eclair

“Why don’t we hang out more with Seung-Gil?” Phichit asked Leo when he skated to the side of the rink during practice.

Leo snagged his water bottle and eyed the Korean skater as he drank. “I’m not sure,” he finally said, his words slow and cautious. “There’s just something ...”

“He’s intimidating,” Guang Hong piped up from his seat behind Phichit. “He has that old book feeling ... seems smart and all, but hard to understand.”

“Huh,” Phichit muttered, watching as the subject of their conversation ran through a complicated step sequence with all the emotional flair of Spock. “I feel bad that we don’t try harder with him.”

“I bet no one really knows him,” Leo confided. “Even Sara didn’t get anywhere.”

_That_ was a surprise. Sara’s bubbly, open nature meant she was one of the favorite skaters to hang out with off the ice. The men were still chatting quietly, daring each other to go talk to Seung-Gil when Yuuri skated over.

“Hey,” he called with a relaxed grin.

His practice had been going perfectly, despite Victor’s absence due to his own competition half the world away. It was a shock to everyone, including Yuuko, who stepped in, the third string coach since Yakov was at the same competition as Victor.

Yuuri waved her away when she held up his water bottle and focused on his friends. “What are you three talking about?”

“Seung-Gil,” Phichit said. “Trying to figure out who’s going to be brave enough to talk to him.”

Yuuri’s expression shifted to utter confusion. “Brave enough? Wait ... you mean none of you have talked to him before?”

“You have?” Guang Hong asked.

“Sure. Last season he was standing in the elevator with me when Mari sent a picture of Makkachin. He saw it and asked about her.”

“Really?”

Yuuri would have laughed at Phichit’s wide-eyed astonishment, but the three younger skaters were all so shocked he couldn’t bring himself to tease them.

“Really,” Yuuri assured them. “He has a dog too. She’s adorable. He even showed me some videos of her doing crazy tricks. You should ask him about it.”

And with that, Yuuri skated away, leaving a heated discussion in his wake. He smiled when he heard Phichit call out loudly across the rink, “Seung-Gil, you’re hoarding cute dog videos from us?”


	7. Ice Cream Explosions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by @eclair

“Oh, my God, Round Face, are you seriously going to cry to me about this?” Bakugo groaned as he lifted more weights to return to the rack.

“You are the worst friend,” Ochako said. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because I own a gym, am willing to train with your sorry ass, and you’re a masochist,” he replied, deadpan.

She made a face at him, but even his delivery did nothing to change her obvious pain. Her nose was pink from how much she’d rubbed it with tissues, her eyes were red rimmed and puffy, and every now and then when she stopped actively thinking about it, her lower lip would tremble from an imminent storm of tears.

He was going to fucking kill that asshole. He should have listened when stupid Deku warned him that he was worried Ochako was dating a player. Instead, he’d ignored the advice—which, to be honest, he did with _anything_ that came out of the loser’s mouth—and now he was paying for it.

He sighed, but didn’t kick her off the bench. “Are you at least going to pretend to work out?”

“Katsuki, I just had my heart broken _again_ , and you’re worried about my exercise regime?”

There was no winning. He ran a hand through his hair, and heard her giggle. The sound surprised him enough that he glanced up, only to grimace at the sight facing him in the mirrored wall. The sweat from his workout made his mussed hair stick up in strange points, like he’d survived some cartoon explosion.

“Why can’t that nice new guy you like walk in and see you now?” Ochako said around the hint of a tiny smile. “I’m pretty sure it might finally knock you off that pedestal he put you on.”

“Shut your face,” Bakugo growled. “And I’m pretty fucking sure there’s _nothing_ I could do that would deter Shitty-Hair.”

It was kind of a relief to say that and feel like it was the truth. Not that he’d admit that, even to Ochako. He hated having his private life become the subject of speculation, but the sight of a genuine smile growing over Ochako’s face made him think that _maybe_ it was worth it.

Until the brilliance vanished and she was back to staring at her hands. “All I want is to wallow in a swimming pool of ice cream.”

“No. Don’t you dare. We’ve been training for this tournament for months and I’ll be damned if you throw all that work away. You’re better than that.”

She gaped at him. “That ... almost sounded like _encouragement._ ”

“It wasn’t.”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure it was.” She tilted her head and watched him stretch out. “Are you sick? Are you _dying_?”

“I can be encouraging.”

“Your positive statements involve an absurd amount of profanity and death threats.”

“You’re just jealous that I can get results from cock-thistles who have no self-motivation.”

“Right. Of course that’s it. You could start putting up a quote of the week on the walls.” For the first time since she’d walked in and burst into tears, Ochako actually looked _happy_. “What would it be this week?”

“Start sparring, for fuck’s sake.”

Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head. “It’s missing something.”

“What? You expect me to throw it up there with some craptastic picture of a kitten attacking a puppy or something?” He snorted derisively and pointed for her to get up off the bench so they could start their workout in the newly emptied space, but she didn’t move.

Instead, she tilted her head back and laughed. “A picture! Of course! How could I forget that? I can see it now ... The Bakugo Katsuki line of inspirational posters.”

She probably teased him on purpose. She’d always known how to twist his competitive nature. “Hey, I’d inspire the fuck out of those posters,” he snapped.

“Of course you would. Let’s see, the waterfall print would read, _If you don’t stop crying, I’ll kill you._ ”

Clearly, no sparring would commence until she felt better, so he gave up and sprawled on the mats, letting his own mind wander. “A stupid sunset one, too.”

“Yeah! It could say ... _Start the damn workout before the fucking sun goes down!_ ”

“Seriously, Round Face, are we doing this today or not?”

She didn’t even hear him, too lost in her own game. “You could have a post-break up line. How about one with a box of truffles and something like, _They say chocolate is a cure of heartache, but don’t forget that calories are hard to burn, bitch._ ”

Bakugo groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. “Okay, get up.”

“I don’t _want_ to spar today. If you hit me once, I’ll start crying and get snot all over you.”

“I know that. We’re not sparring today. I’m taking you to get some goddamn ice cream.” He lifted a hand and pointed at her. “And if you tell Shitty Hair I did something nice for you, I’ll make you regret it.”

Ochako held up her hands, but her smug grin did nothing to convince him that she’d obey. “Fine. I won’t dare to let him know that you can actually be a _nice_ , _kind_ , _considerate_ human being who supports his friend when she’s miserable from a break-up and can’t figure out how to cope. I’d hate for him to learn that you’re quite the catch despite your horrible attitude and that he’d be lucky if you finally acted on your interest in him.”

“Damn right,” he grumbled as he climbed to his feet. Except, when he turned, Shitty Hair was standing there, mouth slightly open and a flush spreading high over his cheeks. Bakugo wanted to rip something apart with his hands. Violently. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose and refused to look at Ochako, who was snickering behind him. Fucking traitor. “How long have you been here?”

The guy’s hands tightened around the strap of his gym bag. “Dude, taking a break from a workout to help her deal is super manly!”

“Do you want to come with us?” Ochako asked before Bakugo could open his mouth to respond.

The flush on the other man’s cheeks intensified. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he started to say.

Started to say, because Bakugo gave up. His day had already gone to hell. It’s not like it could get worse. “Oi, Shitty Hair, you’re not interrupting. You like ice cream, right?”

“Yeah. I do.” He tilted his chin up and grinned, a sharp smile that made Bakugo’s heart beat far too fast. “And I’m pretty sure I could be convinced to like you, too.”

“If you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” Ochako whispered. “This is going to be so much fun.”

Bakugo sincerely doubted it.


	8. Band Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from @stellar-blau

It was official. Yuri hated summer camp. The moment he got back home, he was going to give his grandpa an earful.

Maybe the experience would have been more fun if it weren’t for the people there. But there was no way of making freaking _band camp_ any more enjoyable than playing that shitty, reworked version of “Welcome to the Jungle” at his high school’s last assembly before summer break. Wait ... No, playing that song had been more fun than this. And he’d had to play _the cowbell_ instead of his cello.

Yuri sighed and rested his head against the wall of the boathouse. Technically he was still following the dumb ass rules his counselor Victor had set for the game of Spotlight. He was within the specified area, he was listening to Victor’s sing-song voice calling out the names of people he caught, and he hadn’t gone back to his cabin yet. So what if he was tucked behind an ancient rowboat covered in a pile of tarps and nets and ridiculous pylons used to mark swimming routes in the lake? He didn’t want to be found. Not by Victor, not by his fellow campers, not by anyone.

Too bad someone walked into the boathouse at that moment. Against his will, Yuri felt the tiny surge of adrenaline as he tried to figure out who was standing in the doorway, backlit by the moonlight and stars.

_Too short to be Victor_ , he thought and let himself relax.

Whoever it was just stood there, probably letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Normally, Yuri wouldn’t have cared. But he could hear Victor coming their way and he didn’t want this asshole to get him caught as well.

“Hey,” he whispered.

The person in the doorway didn’t move.

“Hey, asshole,” Yuri hissed a little louder, “what are you doing? Get in here and hide already.”

_That_ caught the intruder’s attention. He left the doorway and made his way cautiously through the piles of junk and scuttled boats toward Yuri’s hiding spot. Outside, Yuri heard Victor’s voice growing louder as he came to check the boathouse.

Yuri reached out and grabbed the other player’s hand, dragging him down so he too was hidden. To the guy’s credit, he didn’t make any noise at the unexpected movement. He _did_ try to pull away a little, but the scuffle of Victor’s feet in the doorway left him frozen against Yuri.

“Hello?” Victor called from the doorway. The white beam of his flashlight roamed the boathouse and Yuri’s stomach cramped. Not from excitement over the stupid game, of course. No, he just didn’t want to have to walk to the “jail” and hangout in there with stupid JJ, who was the first to get caught. That’s why his palm was sweating and he was clinging to the other kid’s hand so tightly. And it’s probably why the other kid was clinging back just as hard.

The beam crossed over the pile of stuff that hid them, missing _them_ , but providing enough light that Yuri could finally make out who was sharing his hiding spot. Otabek Altin, the double bassist he’d spent almost a month pretending to ignore, crouched a few inches away. He wasn’t watching Victor’s light moving though; he was watching Yuri. Again.

Yuri wasn’t sure what to make of that. Otabek was ... intense. He was probably the most focused musician at the camp, other than Yuri, of course. He wasn’t mean or anything. He just didn’t joke around like Phichit or talk about starting classical-pop crossover groups like Leo or pretend like he would be the next Nigel Kennedy like JJ did. Otabek played every song like it was a war and he intended to be the only man left alive when it was all over.

Yuri was pretty sure Otabek hated how he played the cello. He’d been joking around with Victor’s counselor boyfriend Yuuri one day before one of the official camp practice sessions. Otabek had walked in on their impromptu cello-piano duet. He didn’t clap when they were done. He just went to his seat and started getting ready. But he hadn’t taken his eyes off of Yuri once at practice that day, even at the risk of getting yelled at by Yakov. Not that Otabek would miss anything while the old man was conducting; he was infuriatingly steady and reliable.

That made this whole inches-apart thing a little unnerving. Yuri wasn’t good at reading him and there was a strange look on Otabek’s face Yuri had never seen before. He probably shouldn’t have opened his mouth, but his nerves were too strong. “What are you looking at?”

“You’re a really good cellist.”

Yuri blinked.

Otabek swallowed. “I meant to tell you that after I heard you and Yuuri playing, but I couldn’t figure out how to say it and everyone came in and it didn’t seem like a good time after.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Otabek’s eyelashes were short and dark and they made his eyes look like they’d been lined with India ink. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying to hide a smile.

“You’re good too,” Yuri mumbled. He glanced toward the door, but Victor was nowhere in sight. “Why’d you come to hide in here?”

“I saw you go in here at the start of the game. Thought it might be a good time to talk to you.”

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

“You’re the only other person here who’s as serious about playing as I am. I figured we could be friends.”

“Friends?” Yuri’s voice rose to a higher pitch than he expected, but Otabek didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you have anyone to play with at the end of camp talent show?”

“No. Not yet.”

“I want to play Rossini with you,” Otabek said in that quiet, gravelly voice. And then he flushed and Yuri’s heartbeat shook through him like the timpanis in “Carmina Burana.”

“So?” Otabek asked, tilting his head a bit to the side and raising a brow at Yuri. “Are you gonna play with me or not?”

Maybe band camp didn’t suck so badly.


	9. Victuuri domestic fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt by @sassy-potato-of-wonder

Victor winced as he resituated himself in the bathtub. Today’s practice had been good; his jumps were clean, his step sequences were nearly there, and Yakov hadn’t insulted his work ethic all that much. Still, his body ached with the grim reminder that his skating career was crawling towards its inevitable end. It wasn’t a surprise; the melancholia was more of an unwelcome, yet familiar, friend come to visit. At least he finally had a life to look forward to after he left the ice for good ...

“Vitya?”

He’d been so lost in his own thoughts he’d completely missed the sound of their apartment door opening and closing. Had even missed the clicking of Makkachin’s toenails on the floors as she ran to greet Dog Dad #2.

“In here,” he called, knowing Yuuri would eventually find him.

It didn’t take his fiancé long to make his way to their bedroom and the attached bathroom. He leaned against the doorframe, his glasses fogging slightly from the steamy air, a smile curling the corners of his mouth as he took in the scene.

“Rough day at practice?” he asked after a long, comfortable pause. Victor loved how they’d reached that point in their relationship, when silence was no longer terrifying or threatening.

“Not really.” Victor shrugged, the movement pulling at one of the muscles in his lower back. He grimaced. “Just feeling old, I guess.”

Yuuri laughed and crossed the room to join him. He knelt at the edge of the tub, lightly pushing Makka away with a firm Japanese command when she tried to crawl into his lap, and focused on Victor. His fingers traced his wet shoulder, the line of his collarbone, and down his arm until it disappeared into the water.

Yuuri wouldn’t quite meet Victor’s gaze, focused instead on the rippling of water when his fingertips dipped in. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Victor smiled. Yuuri never failed to offer to carry the weight of Victor’s worries, despite his own anxieties. Once he’d let Victor into his heart and trusted that Victor wouldn’t break him or leave him, he’d thrown himself into their relationship with utter abandon. His faith was the only reason Victor was comfortable enough to let himself be seen like this, sore and tired and far off the pedestal the rest of the world had trapped him on.

“Later,” he promised, reaching up and pushing Yuuri’s glasses further up his nose. “I want to hear about your day. It’s not often you get time off.”

Yuuri grinned back at him and settled himself at the edge of the tub, using his arms as a cushion for his chin. “That’s true. I’ve got an _ancient_ task master of a coach who never coddles me or compliments my technique—”

“Yuuri!” Victor’s fake complaint left them both laughing, heads bowed together, Makkachin watching from a safe distance while her tail thumped against the tiled floor.

“My day was good,” Yuuri said. “Makkachin and I had a nice walk this morning. And Yuri met me for coffee at this great bookshop. He even helped me find some new novels to practice reading—”

Victor relaxed, soothed by the excitement in Yuuri’s voice while he shared the details of his day, the sparkle in his gaze, and the sweet, gentle touches against his arm. Later, after the water was cool, Yuuri rose to get Victor’s towel.

Yuuri returned, pressed a chaste kiss to Victor’s lips, and wrapped the towel around his shoulders when he clambered out of the tub. “I love you. Now, come help me make dinner. We can talk after we eat.”

His earlier worries melted away and Victor nodded. “Perfect.” And it was.


	10. A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @starstruck-moose's prompt: "Your OTP meet in art school and become friends. After a bit they realize they have feelings for the other, but are too shy to say it right out and try to convey it through their artwork instead." (Victuuri)

“Three years,” Victor lamented into his coffee. “It’s been three years!”

“Oh, my God, old man, I _know_. I’ve been listening to you complain like this every day for _three fucking years_.”

“Language,” Victor chided. He glared at his younger foster brother, Yuri Plisetsky, who rolled his eyes and began typing again into his phone. “Anyway, I bet Otabek would agree with me.”

A sharp grin appeared on the younger boy’s face. “You’re on. He’d never turn on me.”

Aaaaaaand … back to the typing. Victor looked back down at his coffee. It was okay, decent for coming from a cheap café on the edge of the university campus, but nothing like what he could create at home. Still, the fact that Yuri voluntarily showed up to chat after Victor’s sculpture class let out was too sweet for Victor to argue about where they would go.

Turns out, Yuri had only wanted to ask Victor if he could borrow his Burberry leather jacket because he was going on a road trip with Otabek for spring break and wanted to look cool on the back of Otabek’s motorcycle. Victor agreed to the loan—partially to reward Yuri for asking for help, a habit he’d never quite mastered despite Victor and Lilia's best efforts—and partly out of the desperate prayer that this trip would be the one where Yuri and Otabek would finally confess their feelings for each other. With Otabek’s high school graduation looming, it was just a matter of time until one of them had the courage to act on the subtle spark which had existed between them for the past year.

A chime indicated Otabek had taken the bait.

“Well?” Victor asked, leaning forward and attempting to peer over the top edge of Yuri’s phone. “What did he say?”

Yuri crowed in delight. “He agrees with me and says waiting three years is stupid.”

Another chime.

Yuri’s triumphant grin faded. “Wait—”

“Ooo, let me see!”

Yuri shoved a hand in Victor’s face and pushed him back. “Shut up. I’m reading.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“I said shut up.” Yuri pulled his hand back. He skimmed what must have been a flurry of incoming texts, scowl deepening. “Bastard,” he finally snarled. “He wasn’t supposed to _agree_ with you.”

“I knew it.” Victor tried to hide his smile by taking a sip of his coffee, but it was lukewarm and growing stale and even his amusement at Otabek’s support was drowned out by the letdown of the drink.

“I don’t get it,” Yuri said as he slid his phone into a pocket. “Why would he agree that there’s no point acting on it now?”

“Because Otabek understands that we’re comfortably in the friends-only zone and that it would be too weird if we tried to make it something more.”

If Yuri kept rolling his eyes, they’d probably pop right out of his skull and skitter across the floor. “Now you’re both being stupid. You and the piggy have been dancing around each other for way too long. One of you has to make a move or I’m going to go insane.”

"Pot, meet kettle," Victor mumbled. And then, to avoid Yuri's indignant protests, he quickly added, “Why would I ruin something that’s already good?”

Victor wasn’t sure if he actually wanted an answer to the question, so he avoided Yuri’s far too canny gaze and instead toyed with the handle of his mug.

“Victor, when you first moved here, you were miserable,” Yuri stated bluntly. “You did your best to fake it, but everyone—including Yakov—knew you hated it here.”

“I didn’t hate it,” he mumbled.

It was true. He’d been depressed and lonely and confused in a new country, learning a new language, and finding new ways to improve his art, but he hadn’t _hated_ his life. He’d just … struggled to enjoy it as much as he’d hoped he would.

“It was a good move,” he said, attempting to counter Yuri’s familiar, incoming argument. “I graduated and now I’m a TA so I can gain more teaching experience. They’re even talking about hiring me in a few years as an adjunct. That’s a great start.”

Yuri shrugged. “Doesn’t change the fact that you weren’t happy until the piggy walked into class. And don’t you dare try to lie to me. I _remember_ that call. You couldn’t stop gushing. You made me throw up in my mouth a little.”

Despite being raised by wealthy parents who wielded their entitlement and aristocracy like weapons and saw no monetary value in something as complicated as truth, Victor had maintained two simple rules about honesty. Rule one: he would never lie to Yuri. Years in the foster care system before he’d landed into a stable home with Victor's aunt Lilia meant Yuri had a hair-trigger about dishonesty that Victor would never set off. Rule two: he would never lie to himself when he fell in love with someone. He’d seen how his parents’ marriage had fallen apart and refused to walk that path. Which meant he had long ago accepted that he’d fallen head over heels for a Japanese exchange student the first day he’d walked into the art room where Victor was waiting to model for the figure drawing class.

It wasn’t his fault. Yuuri Katsuki was brilliant and expressive and kind and sweet and absurdly down to earth in a way Victor couldn’t fathom. Where Victor’s parents financially supported his dreams of becoming a famous artist, Yuuri’s family had only been able to send him to university after he’d won a massive scholarship based on the potential seen in his freshman art portfolio. Victor had been so taken with the humble, quiet, dark-haired man after only a few sentences of his story, they sat and chatted the rest of the time it took util the professor arrived.

Then Victor had stripped naked, posed for about an hour, and done his damnedest to not scare Yuuri off by asking for his number after the class.

Somehow, it worked. They texted off and on. Victor had offered Yuuri critical advice on some of his projects. Yuuri had returned the favor for a collection in Victor’s show. Suddenly, they became were talking every day, texting in spare moments because they knew each other’s schedules so well. And then they’d entered an emotional stalemate that was killing Victor not-so-softly and would end in a matter of month’s with Yuuri’s graduation.

“My point,” Yuri continued, snapping Victor’s attention away from the looming tragedy and back to the moment at hand, “is that if you _don’t_ tell him, he’s going to graduate and leave and you’ll go back to being a balding, mopey moron.”

“I’m not balding!”

“Really? That’s what you choose to focus on?” Yuri tapped his finger on the table. “Why haven’t you shown him your newest pieces?”

“You looked in my sketchbook?” Victor pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m shocked! I can’t believe you broke the sacred rule of privacy.”

Apparently, Yuri had grown immune to Victor’s best efforts at appearing scandalized, because he didn’t bat an eyelash. “You had way too many drawings of him naked in there. But even they weren’t horrible.”

Coming from a petulant, emotionally constipated teenager, it was high praise.

“You should show him,” Yuri added.

“Maybe,” Victor countered.

“ _Show him_. Piggy would understand.”

“I’d understand what?”

Victor jumped when the question came, not in Yuri’s bitterly sarcastic tone, but in the low, sweet voice of his personal muse.

“Piggy,” Yuri said, evil grin back with a vengeance, “Victor just finished up some new pieces and doesn’t think they’re good enough.”

Victor kicked at Yuri under the table. The little bastard dodged and Victor scowled when his toes connected with the leg of Yuri’s chair.

Meanwhile, his _other_ Yuuri was still standing beside their table, looking back and forth between them with the barest hint of a line between his brows. “Oh?” It wasn’t really a question. It was more of an exhalation, due to its timidity. “Did you want someone to take a look at them?”

Victor’s heart lurched. Yuuri was so conscious of his creative process, understood so easily that Victor’s perfectionism came at the high cost of sometimes crippling doubt, and in the past three years, he’d never once overstepped his bounds.

Except, now was the moment that it would probably _help_ to have Yuuri overstep his bounds. Victor didn’t seem to be capable of the courage required to confess himself. “Umm—”

Yuuri dragged a hand through his hair. “I have a few pieces I was hoping you’d look at too, if you want. Or have time. And if not, it’s okay.”

“I’d love to see them.”

The tension in Yuuri’s face vanished so easily with the statement, replaced with a happy glow. Yuri made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and stood. “That’s my cue to leave. Thanks for the jacket, old man. I’ll text you when I can.”

“Do that,” Victor agreed, incapable of looking away from Yuuri. “Remember to wear a helmet.”

“Always. Otabek won’t even start the damn thing until he knows I’ve got it on.” As Yuri left, he bumped his shoulder against Yuuri’s. “Piggy, make sure that Victor actually shows you those pieces. I’m sick of hearing him bitch about it.”

“Language,” Victor pleaded at the same moment Yuuri said, “Sure.”

After the teen left, a familiar, comfortable stillness settled in at the table. Yuuri didn’t sit; he stood there, hand clutching at the strap of his bag, but looking relaxed in the way he only got around Victor. Victor fussed with the mugs and dropped some bills on the table for a tip before rising and stuffing his hands in his pockets so he didn’t do something stupid with them, like take Yuuri’s hand in his own.

“They’re at my place,” he said quietly.

Yuuri hummed his acknowledgement, but didn’t protest. He’d only been over to Victor’s loft apartment a few times to practice with still life scenes Victor set up to help him hone weak skills. Without that safety net, this invitation was a risk Victor wasn’t positive he should take. Still, he trusted Yuuri to tell him if he was ever uncomfortable. They were close enough friends for honesty.

The walk was quiet. Victor was too lost in his own thoughts and doubts to keep the conversation going smoothly. Yuuri didn’t seem to mind. He brought up the work he was doing for his capstone art show, though he didn’t go into detail, and caught Victor up on his family’s lives back home in Japan. It was so easy like this, easy to listen to Yuuri gush about the people he loved, easy to be as supportive as possible, easy to fall a little more in love with him every second.

Maybe that’s why the ease carried over into Victor’s apartment. He unlocked the door and led Yuuri inside, kicking his shoes off and tossing his light jacket on the table near the door. Yuuri followed suit, but held onto his folder. His knuckles were still white from how tightly he gripped the strap.

“Do you want coffee?” Victor asked on his way into the kitchen.

“No, thank you.”

“Tea?”

“I won’t say no to that.”

Victor smiled, proud of knowing how to help Yuuri enjoy the little indulgences. He readied the mugs—he was making himself some _actual_ coffee this time—and called over his shoulder, “You can set up by the easel, like last time. I’ll be in there in a minute.”

It didn’t take him too long to make their drinks. He was walking toward the sitting area when he looked up and saw Yuuri sitting on his couch. The light slanted in from the windows and caught on the lenses of his glasses, and Victor’s soul soared from how perfect that sight was. He wanted to see it again. Every day. It was only then, his hands were full with mugs of hot liquid, that Victor realized he was about to confess. His first impulse was to drop the mugs—hardwood floors be damned—and flee the apartment. His second impulse wasn’t as pushy; the steady growing confidence that he could make Yuuri happy was enough to prevent the initial flight instinct.

“Here,” he offered, handing off the tea.

Yuuri took a careful sip, sighed in enjoyment, and settled back more comfortably. “So, where are these pieces you’re so worried about? I don’t know how you could ever produce anything that doesn’t work …”

He set his coffee down and retrieved his sketchbook. Its weight seemed to double when Yuuri’s gaze fastened on it, and Victor swallowed hard. “How about we trade?”

“That might be better,” Yuuri agreed, lifting his folder to hand over. “I’m a little nervous about your reaction.”

“Me, too.”

They exchanged work with small, private smiles.

“Well,” Yuuri said shyly, “here we go.”

“Here we go,” Victor repeated.

He was too terrified to witness Yuuri’s reactions to his drawings,so he dove into the portfolio, inspecting the various small scale pieces Yuuri had created. It took him a while to realize what he was looking at.

They were intense close-ups in graphite and charcoal and ink, various mediums concentrated on the same subject. A fabric-clad curve of shoulder here. The stitch pattern on the leather of an expensive shoe. A fall of hair over the crown of a head. The tendons and bones flexed in a hand. The curl of eyelashes against half-closed lids. And the last picture, a partially completed piece whispering already of the full depth of shadow and texture, even though it was so rough in this form. A man from behind, sitting, looking out a window, his chin resting in his hand.

Him.

Yuuri had drawn _him_.

He didn’t know when Yuuri had captured that moment. He had been in the upper level of the art building, taking a break from typing up a professor’s lecture notes by glancing out the window that overlooked the plaza below. He’d been looking for Yuuri, hoping he’d catch sight of him one more time that day. Apparently, Yuuri wasn’t as far away as Victor had thought.

He returned the pieces to the portfolio with shaking hands. He still didn’t dare to look over. If he did, the spell would break, even if Yuuri felt the same way for him.

“Victor?” Yuuri sounded so worried. “Say something. Please.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. Get angry with me. Tell me to throw them all out and redo my show. Just … don’t act like it’s nothing.”

“I don’t have anything to say.” He could do this. He could be brave. He cast a wary glance and realized Yuuri had never opened his sketchbook. It sat in his lap, closed firmly, while Yuuri clutched his mug of tea and did his best not to cry.

“Wait. You didn’t look at mine yet?” Victor asked.

Yuuri shook his head. “I wanted to see your reaction.” He chewed at his lower lip, but must have decided something important, because he set down his mug and lifted his chin a fraction before announcing, “I’ve wanted to ask your permission to use those pieces in my show for months. I kept getting too scared. I’m out of time now and I really need to know. So … are you okay with me using them in my show?”

“Yuuri,” Victor murmured, too touched to explain clearly. “Open the damn book.”

Yuuri scowled, a surprising expression for a man who was normally so calm, but he opened the sketchbook. His cheeks flushed and his mouth dropped open as he flipped through page after page of Victor’s work. All of it pictures of him.

When he could finally speak, his voice cracked with emotion. “Is this … This is how you see me?”

“No.” Victor smiled a little at Yuuri’s blatant disappointment. “It’s a pale imitation. I still need to do a lot of work before I can draw you half as well as you deserve.”

He dragged his sketchbook from Yuuri’s hands and set it gently on the floor beside the other portfolio. Then he moved closer still, until he and Yuuri were facing each other in the fading light, their knees pressed together, their breath mingling.

“And, yes,” Victor whispered, “you can use those pictures in your show if you tell me what your theme is.”

Yuuri’s flush deepened, spread to the back of his neck like watercolor. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a pen. With slow, precise movements, he wrote a series of symbols on Victor’s hand, blowing on the ink to dry it.

“I don’t speak Japanese,” Victor lamented, twisting his hand to try to read the impossible to decipher kanji. “It’s not fair that you told me your theme this way. What does it mean?”

Yuuri’s hand fit against his, covering the symbols and sending Victor’s pulse racing from the steady, warm grip.

“It’s pretty simple,” Yuuri said, staring at their clasped hands with something akin to wonder lighting his expression. He smiled to himself, then looked up. “It means _love_.”

Victor smiled back. “Perfect.”


End file.
